The Tails Have It
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Part 9 of my Tail series. Just the boys solving cases in their new world.


The Tails Have It

John followed after Sherlock as the detective walked along the corridor at Scotland Yard, discussing the latest case with Lestrade. Well, "discussing" might be an understatement.

"He couldn't have murdered his wife!" Sherlock barked out. "He's an epileptic!"

"What does that have to do with it?" asked Lestrade.

"If you had looked at the body, you would already know!" Sherlock nearly yelled in exasperation.

"Sherlock," John warned him gently.

Sherlock gave a sigh as they turned a corner. "Mrs. Keller was killed by multiple stab wounds. The angle of the wounds and the strategic placement of them was too exact. They didn't falter; his hands didn't shake at all. The husband couldn't have done it."

"Well, we'll take that under advisement," Lestrade told him.

"But the real killer is still out—" began Sherlock.

They had rounded a second corner, where a janitor was swinging a dripping mop onto the floor, fresh from the bucket full of water. Sherlock pushed himself backwards, trying to avoid the water splattering on the floor not one foot from him. John quickly moved to the other side of the hallway, avoiding the water as well.

"Oh, sorry, mate," said the janitor.

Sherlock nodded and chose to pretend like nothing had happened; that was least likely to arouse Lestrade's suspicions. "Come on, John. We have a killer to catch."

* * *

"Run, John!" Sherlock yelled as he raced through the streets, dodging pedestrians with John in tow.

Their suspect had fled as soon as Sherlock had cornered him outside of Tesco's. They had been chasing him for ten blocks now. And they were finally catching up.

The suspect rounded a corner onto Millbank, barreling into a couple walking along the pavement. The couple exclaimed in shock as they reeled away from him, and Sherlock had to weave around the wife. The suspect barreled into the street, car horns honking as a black cab slammed on its brakes inches from where the man had been. Sherlock followed to renewed horn honking, which continued as John followed as well. They were gaining on him. Until they reached the other side of the pelican crossing.

Just as Sherlock rushed past the pedestrians waiting to cross, a red double-decker bus approached on the street next to them, its wheel dipping into a rather large puddle left from the rain. It didn't cause a large splash, but it was enough that it swept over Sherlock's shoes, soaking into his socks. He slammed to a halt, glancing down at his wet feet, then angrily back at the bus that had caused the damage (at which point he noticed that John was also staring in horror at his own wet shoes), and then at the fleeing suspect.

_Damn, damn, damn! _Sherlock thought as he gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock," John urged.

_He's getting away! _Sherlock wanted to yell as the suspect rounded a corner and disappeared.

"Sherlock!" John barked, grabbing his arm.

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he turned and raced towards the stone railing blocking the pedestrians from the Thames, John just one step in front of him. The people walking nearby exclaimed as Sherlock and John pushed themselves up onto the railing and then vaulted over it, falling the fifty feet to the surface of the Thames. They barely made it; just as they hit the water, the transformation took hold.

Sherlock let himself sink further into the water before he turned to look back at the surface. People were gathering at the railing and gazing over it into the water, most with alarmed faces. Some quickly turned and ran from the railing while others were putting their mobiles to their ears. Sherlock looked over at John, who was floating next to him. They came to the same conclusion: they needed to get back to Baker Street.

They sped through the water until they reached a somewhat deserted point a mile further downriver. As soon as they got themselves together, they hurried towards Baker Street, coming to a halt when they saw Lestrade at the door with Mrs. Hudson.

"Damn," muttered Sherlock as he and John took cover in a darkened doorway across and down the street. "They did recognize us." He thought quickly as Mrs. Hudson motioned into the building. "Follow me." He turned himself invisible and ran into the street, crossing over to 221.

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the foyer, allowing Lestrade to enter. Sherlock held his other hand out, halting the door just as Mrs. Hudson had been about to swing it closed. Sherlock reached the steps as Mrs. Hudson frowned, trying to get the door to budge. He slid past her and into the foyer, where Lestrade was standing.

"It won't move," Mrs. Hudson told him.

"Is it stuck?" asked Lestrade, heading her way.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching, when he felt John bump into him. Sherlock grabbed hold of his arm and, as Lestrade pushed on the door particularly hard, he let go of his telekinetic hold on it. As it slammed closed, Sherlock turned and headed up the stairs, pulling John until the doctor had gotten the idea.

When they had reached the flat, they became visible, quickly hanging their coats up. Sherlock immediately sat in his armchair, steepling his hands in front of himself and gazing absentmindedly over into the kitchen. John grabbed the newspaper from his chair and sat across from Sherlock, opening the paper to read.

A few moments later, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Lestrade appeared there. He gave a sigh at the sight of them and raised a radio to his mouth. "You can stand down. They're right here."

"Stand down?" asked Sherlock, allowing his brows to rise in interest as John lowered his newspaper with concern on his face.

"Some civilians down near the Vauxhall Bridge claim they saw Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson jump into the Thames not twenty minutes ago," Lestrade explained.

"Really?" said Sherlock.

"Kids playing a joke?" asked John, turning more towards the inspector.

Lestrade shook his head. "There were close to twenty of them, all different ages."

"Well, if John and I had jumped into the Thames at this time of year, we'd be dead by now," Sherlock told him.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" asked Lestrade.

"Have I not?" asked Sherlock, surprise on his face.

"No," said Lestrade, shaking his head.

"I never heard it," said Sherlock, allowing a confused frown to show as he gazed back into the kitchen.

Lestrade shook his head. "Glad you two are okay." He turned to leave.

"Thanks, Greg," said John.

As soon as Lestrade had gone downstairs, Sherlock got to his feet and went over to his coat, pulling out what he assumed would be a water-damaged phone. However, when he hit the button on the side, he was surprised to see the screen tell him he had three missed calls from Lestrade.

"There's one thing I don't understand," said Sherlock.

"What's that?" asked John.

Sherlock turned, showing him his phone. "If I jumped into the river with this in my pocket, how can it still work?"

"When we jump in the water and our clothes get wet, they're still dry and clean when we transform back, as if they'd never gotten wet in the first place," John explained. "Same goes for anything in the pockets." He smiled at Sherlock's perplexed frown. "Magic, remember?"

Sherlock frowned down at his phone for a moment. "Not sure I like that answer."

"There's no science in it," said John. "Of course you don't like it."


End file.
